


XX et circenses

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst and Porn, Dirk does a Crywank, M/M, Metanarrative Voyeurism, The Homestuck Epilogues, Trans Dirk Strider, Using your own memories as space pornhub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 06:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20701742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dirk Strider aches like a motherfucker these days. The mornings are too long, the afternoons too languid, the nights too excruciating. Balanced measures are lost on a sea of unfiltered bullshit verbatim and altercating thoughtspeak. He struggles with a narrator that is both his enemy and his facilitator while tripling as a sincerely alluring copy of himself. And even though he hasn't ever classified himself as a man of religion, he still bemoans:God, how i wish i could just get fucked.





	XX et circenses

There's no build-up.

You're fingering yourself to the thought of him. The way he looks, the way his beard scratches at your neck when you're trapped in his arms. God, the way he holds you, hoists you up with the confidence of a man that knows you won't break. That you are not delicate, not made of the same material as the layer of ice covering a frozen lake- but yet you are precious. 

You feel your walls clench around your slick knuckles as you gasp, needy and unfiltered, legs ajar on top of his table. The sharp jolt of pleasure set alight on your brain at the mere thought of his fingers ghosting your skin is driving you insane. There are no cameras here, and you know because you've helped build this mansion and remember it like the back of your own hand, but you pretend there are and that he'll be shocked to stumble upon the records of your crime. 

Maybe he'll keep it as a memento. 

You switch in the air, glad your undeserved godhood allows you to punch the laws of physics in the dick, and spread yourself hovering on the wooden surface like you're angling it at this mechanic imaginary onlooker. And you want it to catch only your best, wettest angles. You wonder, quite selfishly, if Jake also masturbates at the thought of you when he's lonely.

You wonder if he's built a dick into one of your sparring robots he kept, now that he gets around so much and has seemingly no problem with his once shy and puzzling sexuality. You wonder, perhaps thinking too highly of yourself, if he's built a pocket pussy into one of them and fucked it nice and harsh like it was you instead. Or maybe he did it lovingly, slowly, pretending to be a lover coming home to the piece of him he lost in another body. In your body. Really, you're one self-centered son of a bitch. 

Dirk Strider aches like a motherfucker these days. The mornings are too long, the afternoons too languid, the nights too excruciating. Balanced measures are lost on a sea of unfiltered bullshit verbatim and altercating thoughtspeak. He struggles with a narrator that is both his enemy and his facilitator while tripling as a sincerely alluring copy of himself. And even though he hasn't ever classified himself as a man of religion, he still bemoans: _ God, how i wish i could just get fucked. _

You quickly realize how unhorny masturbating while your metamonologue reverberates your inner walls is. Maybe you could get off like this with Jake - the real one- distracting you from the inevitable, but you loathe yourself too much to try to finger-bang to the rhythm of your own self deprecation.

Which is a shame, considering that's all you ever really do lately. 

Sprawled on the mahogany of his worktable, thighs clammy and chest stuttering, you (I? We? Haven't quite decided on what sounds best.) think of the times he's kissed you. You remember one winter, when you had just turned twenty-two. The snow coating your boots and your back as Jake English laid atop of you and kissed you senseless, the rays of hopeful warmth beaming from his skin flooding into your bloodstream and making you impossibly hot under the collar. He's grown into such a self-assured man, or at least has perfected the illusion of it. You applaud him for his efforts, truly, but you wish he had piledrived you on the snow right then and there, possible audience be damned. You wanted to be coated in white and dripping from the inside out. You wanted your legs to tremble every time you tried to take a step. 

Maybe being aware of the narrative flow turned you into an offshoot of a voyeur, knowing you're some sort of consumable character both worsened and quieted your life-long paranoia. If it couldn't be helped, if it was written to be that way, why bother at all? Give them a show. Make them squirm. Show how hard and how well you can take a good dick down your throat, if that's what they're here for. And by god, does he have a nice one.

You like the way he makes you squirm too. The way he'd knowingly pressed his knee between your legs, how he spread his broad palms on your skin and still fumbled like a schoolboy, habit so endearing you haven't bothered in correcting nor perfecting. You love to fool yourself into thinking you're in control of Jake English, much in the way he's often effortlessly in control of you.

Verbalizing that sort of fucks it up, doesn't it? It always comes back to control. You really want control. You wish you could have it like the dozens of cartoony governments do in his shitty flicks, twitchy panel boards and rows upon rows of switches connected to blinking screens, big red button beaming from under a glass casing marked with "DANGER". You don't enjoy being prey to his whims as he gets up and leaves you panting on the snow, hand beckoning. You don't enjoy the idea of him walking away when you want to keep him close. The minutes wasted that afternoon to run back into the house and discard your heavy winter wet clothes on the foyer are skipped over, a flick from a mind remote control. Anything to get to the bit of the memory where he goes to town on you in the middle of the hallway, pushing your legs apart and pressing you up against the wall, mouth working wonders. That's the good shit. You remember the way his hair feels clutched between your fingers, and how heavenly his warm breath was gracing your thighs. 

Nevermind the loop of sweet, hungry kisses on the playback of your mind right now. Like the one behind the gigantic aberration of a Christmas tree at Jane's end of the year Crockercorp celebration, where he'd confessed how the attentive crowds made him uneasy and clung to you for the remainder of the night. He kissed you again when the fireworks went off, and you remember how flushed he had been when you pointed out you could taste the wine on his tongue, then still under twenty-one.

Christmas? It's baffling to me, really. Of course Jane would be the one to insist on reinstating the most diluted forms of archaic religion from an universe that has long since ceased to exist. You have yet to convince her to move on towards a brighter future. You knew exactly when to give up your shitty santa strife tactics, this really shouldn't be much different when you're the actual gods. But enough of that. You’re not here to think about Jane.

_Strife._ Your mind snaps back around itself as you dive to remember the climax of the second season of your and Jake's- but mostly yours- rap battle live show. The feverish chanting of the crowds, the dimming lights. Sanctioned godly violence, your very own panem et circenses. 

Jake's shirt has been artfully slashed in three big tires by the practiced movements of your katana, and his gun holsters sit empty under his toned arms. You've both been training to a strain, and are more than just a little bit dirty and bloody, but he's inarguably always been the most photogenic of the two, so he takes to posing. You take a bow as someone throws flowers your way, and when you rise to firmly shake his hand and retreat, you catch a mischievous glint on his emerald eyes before you can realize he's pulling you into a strong-armed embrace.

Forceful and sweaty manhandling, delightfully choke-full of breathable testosterone. You can almost fuckin' taste it. You really watched this boy grow into a stallion after sitting through his ceaseless tripping over his own baby legs for the entirety of his teenagehood. You rub yourself with a renewed fervor when you think of how his kiss devoured you under the spotlights, excitable as he only ever is in the presence of something he adores. Of course, you're not sure if that’s you, or the crowd. 

You know what happened next.

You dream of him smiling as he pulls your workout wifebeater out of your pants and over your head, appraising your physique. You dream of bright yellow, orange and green lights dancing across your dark skin and making the thin metal chain you wore around your neck glimmer. You dream of him biting down on your skin and grabbing handfuls of your ass from under your jeans as the public explodes. (Figuratively? Literally? This one is up for debate. Maybe both. Isn’t that quite the vision?) He draws your thick leather belt undone with one confident swoop and hurls it further into the arena as you rip what's left of his shirt apart, fingers trailing the hair on his chest. You can't make out any noise but your own shared moans, absorbing him with kisses that trail into bites. Jake English doesn't bother with the logistics of pulling down both your pants as he grinds his hard-on between your legs and pushes you face down on the platform you both stand on at the start of your fights, he only drags your jeans low and zips out his dick, groaning with freedom. You feel precome slick drag painfully slowly between your lower lips as he thrusts into your pressed thighs. You moan a delighted laugh and a breathy  "Yes" when he finally fucks into you, rough. 

You lose yourself amidst the colorful warmth of the spotlight and the crescendo of pleasure in being mercilessly mounted like a grand winning racehorse.

The showers within the studio are reserved exclusively for the two of you when the lights have gone down, for no reason other than presuposed solace in quietude. The water runs hot even though you do too. Jake's lips find you under the spray and he drags your head out of the water's range, greedy and still riding high on the adrenaline of fisticuffs. You thank the existence of accessibility bars as you take hold of the metal protruding from the walls to not slip as he moves inside you. It's too much, it's just right, and it's also not enough. You feel like maybe you could swallow him whole and you hate yourself for wanting so much, then you want more. You remember the tiles in the shower walls being a beautiful arrangement of gradient blues shaped like tidal waves. You remember how he’d hold you up and lock your legs around his hips, pressing you against the blue, and how he’d sing praises to your body like he once did only to Na’vi beauties in straps of cloth. You want to ask him if he’s yours. You nearly do, but something in his eyes is so honeysweet and tender lost among the vivid green that you can’t bring yourself to. You don’t dare peer into his mind either, you only hold on. You dig your nails into the back of his shoulders and Jake kisses the moans out of your mouth, one by one. He murmurs your name like a beloved incantation, and you hope it’s enough to bind yourself to him.

You love the way he says “Dirk” over and over again.

You snap your eyes open to the cold of your master room in the ship as it cuts through the stars. Your fantasy’s completely ruined, and not because of lack of immersion. Just lack of _ control. _ You’re emotionally exhausted and that’s not something a good wank is about to solve, even if involves a bit of crying this time around. That might as well be the kind of shit you’re about to do.

Unless you’re still horny, which sounds absolutely reprehensible to me. Come on, there’s no way.

Oddly, you just feel like you’re not done yet. You have countless memories and countless Jakes to choose from, amid a soup of wishfulfilment daydreaming, but there’s one specific memory poking out of your afterglow. You’re half naked in this one, for what’s worth, and just so it’s not only for the sake of feeble sentimentality.

The one in a sticky July night, sitting by the lake where you'd taught him how to swim more than a flimsy dog paddle. The way his fingers tentatively trailed up your arms with little taps as accumulated water droplets trickled from both your chin and his foggy glasses, which he adamantly refused to take out while claiming to not see anything Not immediately pressed to his diddlydarn oculars! His nose nudging the crook of your neck, delicate little reverent kisses laid atop your cheek. The stars were your only witness, and they were complicit in their soft glow to aid your romantic fantasy. You wanted this for so long, and then you got it. To hear his voice, to stand with him, always close even if not quite touching. To just be, goddamit, in the general proximity of his time and whimsy instead of a bazillion centuries apart. He pulls away in an attempt to show you how he's mastered butterfly and you hold fast, automatically afraid the waters would envelop him and never spit him back to you. You had been so close to telling him you loved him then, so why didn't you?

Because it would ruin your moment? Because you weren't brave enough to admit weakness, maybe? Because it's cheesy, idiotic, and frankly unnecessary exposure? He had to know. You knew, and after all the mushy shit you both had been through you both knew, non-verbally. You don't ask a basketball player if he's aware of what happens when he bounces the ball through the hoop or if he knows how points are scored. It's routine, It's obvious. It's literally his job. Drown in your wishful thinking all you'd like, that ain't changing the most basic truth. 

How would you know how much someone cares if they never bothered to fucking tell you. Fault's evenly spread between the two idiots, not just one. What had you been so afraid of? That he'd somehow say "no" even though you shared affections? That he'd run away the moment your relationship had a name, and wasn't just an abstract concept of want? Were you afraid of yourself somehow, of becoming too possessive and _too clingy and too much_ for him to bear loving?

Why did he never say he loved you? 

You find yourself realizing that you don't have the answer to that particular question.

Maybe he thought you would reprimand him. Maybe he wasn't sure. "Maybe" "Maybe" "Maybe" maybe you'll just never know.

But you were, weren't you? 

Every second of it.

Then why couldn't _you_ say something? 

Bitterly laughing as you ache, you confess:

DIRK: I can't do it when someone's watching.


End file.
